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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269671">will they, won't they</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod'>Azaphod</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ace Week, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, Kiss Averse Characters, Light Angst, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:41:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27269671</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I…" Martin struggles, and then he asks; "Do you want to kiss me?"</p><p>“No,” Jon says, quietly, honestly.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>289</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>will they, won't they</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their escape from London is much less dramatic then Jon expected. Between the police and the hunters; Daisy and Elias...<em>Jonah</em>, he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing happens as they leave the city behind, open roads ahead and tacky radio filling the silence; Martin asleep in the passenger seat, his hand still loosely entwined with Jon’s. </p><p>The silence follows them for hours, all the way to their motel room where they ignore the second bed and crawl across the sheets to press close to each other, shaky breathing and warm bodies. They fall asleep in their jeans, still smelling of the empty sea and loneliness. </p><p>When Jon wakes the sheets are tangled around them, and the sunlight pouring through their window hits him directly in the eyes, blinding him in a painfully normal, human way. Martin is awake already, though he hasn’t moved an inch, simply staring up at Jon from his place tucked under his chin. He looks so small and reverential, starlight in his eyes, dappling his lashes with every blink. </p><p><em>I love you</em>, Jon thinks, though he cannot summon the words to his lips just yet. <em>I love you</em>, he thinks as they repack the pathetically empty backpacks with their things and settle back into the car with two steaming cups of motel coffee that Jon wrinkles his nose up at in disdain; and Martin huffs out something close to a laugh and promises to make him some tea when they get to the safehouse.  </p><p>And Martin keeps <em>looking</em> at him. Not that he isn't allowed to do so, frankly Jon would be preening under the attention under different circumstances.</p><p>The problem is when Jon catches him in the act of looking down from Jon's eyes to his lips and back again, he looks...sad. Or not sad, but wistful, melancholic, rueful; all the little synonyms Jon can call to mind, with his eyebrows faintly drawn together in the smallest of frowns. </p><p>Jon isn't <em>stupid</em>, he can guess as to what Martin probably wants. He’s had the thought of simply giving it to him; bending and breaking his own boundaries, how far is he willing to compromise himself for the comfort of another? How much is he ready to sacrifice for the one he so supposedly <em>loves?</em> The questions nauseate him, set his body and mind on edge, and if that isn’t his answer, he doesn’t know what is. </p><p>Martin <em>wants</em>, and Jon cannot <em>give</em>. </p><p>However, he is, in his heart of hearts, a bit of an emotionally constipated coward.</p><p>So when Martin looks at him with such intensity, he ignores it, dodges, dances, and leaps over the tension between them; keeps the contact between them distant, his own gaze jumping away whenever Martin turns to meet him, blaming the long drive times and terrible motel beds for his flighty behavior. </p><p>It's childish, and more importantly, it isn't fair to Martin at all. </p><p>So they <em>have</em> to talk about it.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>--</p><p>They pull off at the next petrol station for food and refueling. Martin slides out of the passenger seat and lingers a little ways off from their car by a singular, ancient bench that sits by the garbage bins. He has that far away look on his face and Jon desperately wants to <em>say something</em>, but he turns away. </p><p>Jon goes inside to purchase supplies for the trip, trying to fight the losing battle to turn and check on Martin out the storefront windows every few minutes, irrationally terrified the man might suddenly vanish while his back is turned. He distracts himself agonizing over what sort of crisps Martin might want, if he'd like something sweet or maybe a different drink. </p><p>All the while Martin sits outside, distant and unreadable. (Not true, Jon could know whatever he so desired, if he looked hard enough and <em>took</em>.) </p><p>He slams the door to one of the refrigerators a little too harshly and all the drinks rattle in their shelves.</p><p>The cashier regards his haggard appearance--<em>dark eyes, dark circles, in need of a shave and a haircut and maybe twenty years worth of sleep</em>-- with the indifference of a youth who has seen far worse working a part time job in a 24/7 establishment that sells both alcohol and lottery tickets. </p><p>The register chimes.</p><p>"Thanks, come again." she says, blandly, eyes zoned out over his shoulder. </p><p>Martin looks up as he approaches. He's looking better in the general sense, the color has returned to his skin; not as muted as it had been upon escaping the Lonely, but something tells him that the ashy, white pallor to his skin, his hair, his <em>eyes</em>--none of that would be going away any time soon. Nor the fog trailing his steps and dreams. </p><p>That was alright though, because Jon wasn't going anywhere either.</p><p>The bench creaks as Martin stands and closes the distance between them, his lips pursing into something that isn't quite a smile. </p><p>Jon waves his plastic bags. "I, uh. Got snacks--breakfast, I suppose, if you'd like something to eat?" he offers, the contents clink and the bag crackles happily, awkwardly loud in the silence of an empty car lot. </p><p>Martin shrugs.</p><p>"Is...everything…" Jon grimaces. <em>Is everything alright?</em> What a stupid question, when was the last time <em>anything</em> been remotely fine for them in the past three years?</p><p>Martin shrugs. </p><p>Jon struggles to stamp down his immediate urge to snap, an irritation fueled by anxiety rising like a monster in his chest. "Is there anything I can do." </p><p>Martin goes to shrug again and Jon just about loses it. </p><p>"<em>Martin</em>," he snaps. </p><p>"It's fine." Martin says, with just as much vitriol. And there’s that look again, the same song and dance of yearning and fear, eyes to lips to eyes to the ground between them.</p><p>"I think we should talk," Jon forces out, and Martin raises a skeptical eyebrow. "about this." </p><p>Martin lets out a weary sigh, "And what is <em>"this"?</em>" </p><p>Jon wiggles the plastic handles around his wrist so he can catch Martin's hands as he scores sarcastic quotation marks through the air. The effect is instantaneous; Martin softens, some of the snappish tension ebbing away as his fingers loop easily into the spaces between Jon's. Their breath staggering as it brings them closer, Jon’s heart beating jackrabbit fast as he distractedly counts all the freckles across Martin’s cheeks. </p><p>"I…" Martin struggles, and then he asks; "Do you want to kiss me?"</p><p>“No,” Jon says, quietly, honestly. </p><p>Martin slumps forward, like the chords keeping him upright had been swiftly cut and the breath rushes out of him sharply. It isn't <em>any </em>of the reactions Jon's been preparing for, though he still feels that familiar crawling sensation of anxiety laced with fear, then Martin's shoulders shake and he realizes it's with <em>laughter</em>.</p><p>Martin gasps, “Oh thank god.”</p><p>Jon, mind suddenly blank, flounders. "I--w-what?"</p><p>"I'm sorry! God, I'm so sorry that's a terrible thing to just blurt out," Martin laughs, he pulls Jon in a little closer, apologetic, and Jon can feel him shaking. "I don't like kissing." </p><p>"Oh," Jon says, "<em>oh</em>, alright."</p><p>Martin peers up at him, "You don't either?" he sounds tentative, he sounds hopeful.</p><p>Jon shakes his head, "No, not at all."</p><p>"I know it’s supposed to be, like, romantic or whatever but I think it's pretty gross, honestly." Martin cringes, "I can get sex and everything, that’s-that’s <em>good</em>, but all that '<em>mwah muh muh</em>' and <em>tongues?</em> And people just <em>do</em> that?" </p><p>Jon wheezes, feeling as if the world had been jerked out from under him and then very quickly replaced. "Never understood the appeal myself." he manages. “Of <em>either</em>. At all. Ever.”</p><p>Martin nods with understanding, “That’s okay, more then okay, actually.” he flaps his hands up and down, he's still squeezing tight to Jon's fingers and in no rush to let go, so every movement creates a little arch between them. "Christ, I've been worrying about that <em>all day</em>, how silly is that? After literally everything that just happened at the Institute and all I can think about is <em>not</em> kissing the love of my life." </p><p>He bursts into giggles again, laughter lines and dimples, and Jon is <em>hopeless</em>. </p><p>“I love you,” he blurts out, and Martin startles, smiles. </p><p>“Can I hug you?” Martin asks. </p><p>“Yes, yes, yes, please.” Jon nods, and he keeps nodding as he wiggles free from Martin’s hold, dropping the plastic bags on the ground without a second thought even as Martin sputters out a noise of surprise. He’s too focused on getting his arms around Martin, sinking into the immediate warmth and comfort it provides, eyelids drooping with the weight of feeling <em>safe</em>. Martin wraps one arm around his waist, anchoring him in, and his other winds up as high as it can into Jon’s hair, carding through the thick curls with gentle reverence and suddenly it’s perfect; a sanctuary he stubbornly never wants to leave, he’ll stay in this parking lot for the rest of his life if it means feeling this loved. </p><p>“I think your drink might’ve spilled, my trainers are getting wet.” Martin says, and Jon blinks. </p><p>“Oh?” Jon sighs dreamily into Martin’s hair, then his brain catches up, “Oh! Shit.”</p><p>Martin snorts, “You owe me some new socks, Mister Sims.”</p><p>“I’ll buy you as many as you want,” Jon replies, and he does mean it to be a joke, but it comes out just a little too sincere. He feels Martin tilt his head to look up at him with soft incredulity, “<em>Anyways</em>, I suppose we should get back on the road,” Jon says, loudly clearing his throat.</p><p>“Lots of distance to cover,” Martin agrees, grinning.</p><p>Neither of them move. </p><p>“Wouldn’t want to be driving in the dark...” Jon continues, helplessly.</p><p>“Oh, definitely not. That would be dangerous.” </p><p>“Mhmm...”</p><p>A truck comes speeding into the lot in a squeal of rubber burning on tarmac, and they both jump. Jon is suddenly very, <em>very </em>aware that they’re still standing in the parking lot of a petrol station and that stubbornness he had felt is very, <em>very </em>quickly diminishing into anxious embarrassment. </p><p>Martin sighs. “Alright, lets go.”</p><p>“Mm,” Jon still frowns as he pulls away, his hands coming up in an aborted motion to bring him back. He can’t help but feel he’s losing something. </p><p>Martin smiles at him with overwhelming fondness, and just a little bit of disbelief, as if he’s stumbled upon something precious accidentally, “Come on, we...we have all the time in the world.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I want it explicitly known that I wrote Martin as an allosexual who is kiss averse, because I literally never see that in a character ever. (You are of course free to interpret him as asexual as well, since I don't know how well I conveyed his sexuality in that limited time!)</p><p>Also I kinda threw together yesterday so if you see any mistakes no you don't &lt;3 (Tell me, I'll fix em) Yall can find me on tumblr @godshaper</p></blockquote></div></div>
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